


Loss Ficlet: Spain

by missclairebelle



Series: Loss (Ficlets) [23]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 05:50:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14826542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missclairebelle/pseuds/missclairebelle
Summary: A 12-day business trip, a red convertible, a villa in Spain. (NSFW)





	Loss Ficlet: Spain

##  **Loss (Modern AU)**

##  **Spain  
** **August 2017**

Geography had come between us.  Not by choice, but by the necessity of work.  For once it was not _my_ work –– late hours, midnight pages, canceled plans.  It was Jamie’s work.  Doggedly working on getting an advertising campaign off the ground for a new account, he had been traveling back and forth to Barcelona for weeks.  

To be frank, it had not bothered me.  The baseline responsibilities of our respective jobs kept us apart a fair number of nights –– me with unpredictability, him with business trips, both with lots of hours.  It was not unusual to sleep alone, even if it was not preferable. Hell, I had lived over a quarter of a century without Jamie Fraser.

But his most recent trip, a lengthy affair, had dented us just a little.  

It started when I dropped him off at the airport on Sunday morning –– _day one_ of a seventeen-day trip.  In theory, I had known what seventeen days apart meant –– two weeks and three days. But looking at the days stretched out in succession was daunting.

Our goodbyes had been brief, whispered affairs into each other’s ears.  ( _I made him laugh:_ “ _Don’t go to too many strip clubs.” He made me laugh: “Piss wi’ the door open while I’m no’ home. Wait, ye already do.”_ )

Each step he took away from the car, maneuvering his wheeled bag, peeled a piece of myself clean away.

That moment had been almost two weeks earlier and I had relived it in vivid detail each morning when I woke, fingers curled into the mattress.  

On the first Monday ( _day two_ ), I rented movies Jamie would never watch and ate spicy Thai takeout with Geillis.  When he called, Geillis hooted in the background that she would take care of my broken heart.  Laughing, Jamie said “have a good time” and promised to call in the morning.

On the first Tuesday ( _day three_ ), I missed his call while I was in the shower. He sounded breathless on his message ( _clearly_ _post-workout, likely sweaty and beautiful_ ).

When I returned his call, it went straight to voicemail.  

By the time he returned _my_ message I was wrist-deep in a human body.  

Then, our evening call was interrupted by a series of emails that made him curse.  After a quick “ _goodnightIloveyou_ ” strung together in a single syllable, I read a chapter of _Harry Potter_.  

We were finally on the seventh book.  And even though he had read them all (“ _repeatedly,_ Sassenach,” he had confided), it felt like a betrayal to forge ahead without him.  

The magic, dripping from every page, was not as intoxicating when it was not spoken _into_ me ( _my head on his chest or shoulder_ ). Situated against one another like that, the rich timbre of his voice vibrating through me, it _felt_ _real_. Reading alone was akin to cheating on him.

I carefully folded the page to mark where we had left off together and closed the book. Spreading myself over Jamie’s side of the bed, I fell asleep face down on the mattress.  

By the first Wednesday ( _day four_ ), we had abandoned any pretense that we could have a normal conversation in the morning before work.  I picked up a night shift at work and reveled in a complicated surgical reconstruction of a post-crush injury forearm.  Our tripartite team –– specialists in vascular surgery, orthopedics, and plastics –– put together one beautiful hand out of some mangled anatomy.  

When Jamie called me shortly before midnight, he was uncharacteristically quiet and directed me to “ _just talk_.”  Obliging, trying to fight back the notion that something was wrong and he did not want to be on the phone, I told him all about the hand in its graphic, gory, and beautifully reconstructed detail.  

On the first Thursday ( _day five_ ), Jamie and I chatted on Skype while he drank the bottle of Spanish wine I had slipped into his suitcase. I had the same bottle and poured generously from it into my own glass.

His mood had improved markedly and we were flirting, laughing, and coy with one another.  He took no small amount of pleasure in teasing me that I had purchased Spanish wine in Scotland, slipped into his suitcase clandestinely, and sent it with him to Spain.

Wine drunk and bold, I took my clothes off on webcam while he smirked and thumbed his lower lip.  Finished, I carefully crossed my legs and backed up in his home office chair so I could be in the frame from head to toes.  When I coyly asked to see a bicep, he turned on a Rihanna song and performed such an exaggerated striptease that I nearly pissed myself laughing.  He looked good. ( _Skin lightly tanned, casual in a white t-shirt, eyes focused on me with an almost feral intensity even through a computer screen_.)

When he sat back down, carved shoulders bared and golden under his hotel’s lamp light, I confessed a litany of things I wanted him to do to my body when he came home.  

In response, we bridged the distance of separate countries and crossed into new territory with our fingers and whispered pleas. I concurred with his assessment that it was _good_ , but was not _enough_.

Our conversation ended shortly after Jamie promised to show his home office chair some real action when he got home.

On the first Friday ( _day six_ ), Geillis and I went shopping. We changed into the dresses we purchased and then stumbled from pub to pub. Surrounded by rich wood and lubricated by beer, Geillis enthusiastically proved that although she was married, the **_old her_** was not dead.

I spent the better part of the evening texting Jamie under the table –– flirty things that made me blush, mundane updates on the drinks I ordered and the bar food I ate, out-of-focus pictures of the hemline of my new dress on my thighs.

In response, he complained about working late and recounted in graphic detail our nocturnal online tryst.  

On the first Saturday ( _day seven_ ), I called John’s husband, David, and spent the better part of the afternoon letting him kick my ass at the gym.  With shaking legs, I called Jamie on my walk home. When he picked up I could hear the quiet rumble of people speaking in Spanish. I apologized almost immediately; he was clearly working.  He dismissed my apology and insisted that recount in graphic detail every lunge, sprint, deadlift, pullup, pushup, crunch, and body weight movement David made me do.

“I bet ye smell absolutely terrible, Sassenach.”

Snorting, I gave myself a little sniff. “I smell like damp gym clothes.”

He laughed.  When we got off of the phone, I was _fine_.  Of course I missed him, to be sure, but had not yet felt the pang of absolute _sickness_ at his absence.  That was yet to come.

I spent the night attempting to recreate a dish the he made that I was obsessed with –– prawns and asparagus.  I ended up walking down the street for a pizza.

On the first Sunday ( _day eight_ ), I tried not to think of what had become our Sunday morning ritual as I finished chores by myself ––wipe down the bathroom, dust the bedroom furniture, and strip the bed to swap out the sheets for a fresh set. I stood like an idiot on the side of the mattress he had staked claim to the day we moved into the flat. For a long while I just stared at his pillowcase in my hands, overwhelmed by a sentimentality for him that I did not know I had. I abandoned our unmade bed and went to the market.  When I finally made the bed and slipped into it, I mentally kicked myself. The freshly-laundered bedding did not smell like him, _like us_.

By dinnertime, I got unexpectedly sentimental about the lack of _noise_ in our flat. ( _A rugby game half-watched, the clang of pots and pans as he did the week’s meal prep, his off-key singing, the hum of the dishwasher and the washing machine._ )

On the second Monday ( _day nine_ ), the stars were aligned just so that we did not get to talk.  Cooking a late-night meal, I burned my hand. “ _Fucking broccoli!_ ” I screamed, my voice bounding off of the walls of our apartment again and again.  Crumpling to the floor, I cried with my pink left hand clutched in my right.  

What I meant was “ ** _fuck Barcelona_**.”

The second Tuesday ( _day ten_ ) and Wednesday ( _day eleven_ ) crawled by.

Our telephone calls were brief.  

The first call was cut short by one of my patients exhibiting signs of a pernicious post-operative infection.  From there, the day devolved into absolute bedlam. The only benefit of my mad workday was that by the time I slumped into bed with aching feet ( _Fitbit: 26,792_ ) and a brain filled with static, was that I did not have an opportunity to miss him much.

The second call ended after only a minute when Jamie’s boss grunted something suspiciously like “ _time to work, Fraser_ ” in the background.

On the second Thursday ( _day twelve_ ), the calm wrought by busyness was gone.  I was off of work and had too much time to think. I fell quiet on the phone while trying not to cry. It was almost like Jamie heard distance it in my voice.  When he asked what was wrong, the basest confession came pouring out of me: “I just miss you more than I thought I would, is all.”

I missed the dumbest little things ( _beard clippings in the sink, underwear on the floor next to the bed, watching the news curled up against his side, doing the crossword and feigning annoyance with his teasing over my sometimes atrocious spelling, the smell of his cologne lingering in the bathroom_ ).  And it made me feel absolutely _desperate_ , realizing how much I had come to really rely on his _presence_ to feel normal.

He did not even pause before making an offer.

“Well, c’mere, then. Ye have the weekend off, aye? I can take a weekend off, even if I canna make it home.”

Wetting my lips and folding my legs under my body on the couch, I focused my attention on the photograph on our television stand. “Are you sure you have the time? I know you’re busy and it’s only a few more––”

“No.  I’d no’ have said it if I didna mean it.”  I let out a long, almost-nervous breath.  “We can get in the car, drive down the coast to somewhere quiet, private… beachy.  I miss ye, too.”

I sighed, picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “I’m sorry that I am making this so complicated.”

“Sassenach.”  

He was quiet for a moment; even his breathing slowed.

“Ye’re the least complicated thing in my life.”

This time _I_ was quiet, thinking and pulling at the loose thread.

I was not looking for encouragement by staying silent, but he provided it nonetheless.  In the low, Scottish tone that he reserved for when I was being particularly stubborn, he said, “Stuff a bikini or two in yer handbag and just come.”

The plan fell into place easily. Jamie texted me flight details to meet him in Málaga –– a message replete with emojis.  ( _A sunshine, a toothy grin, a beach umbrella, some sort of alcoholic drink, and an eggplant –– oh I could have **killed him** for the last._ )  

The following morning, despite an unseasonable chill in the Edinburgh air, I took an Uber to the airport in a sundress and flip flops. Everything I needed fit into an oversized handbag.

When I rounded the corner to the queue of cars waiting in arrivals, I saw that Jamie had accomplished something I had not known was possible –– he was _really tan_. My plan for an effusive, cinematic greeting was all but forgotten when I saw him leaning against a cherry-red convertible, body slack and at ease, eyes scanning the crowd. He saw me before I could approach and grinned the kind of smile that had made me fall in love with him.

“Bienvenido a España,” he whispered before kissing the breath right out of my lungs.  

The loneliness that had built in my belly was slowly filled by a liquid heat at the soft work of his lips ( _wet and tasting sugary sweet like orange Fanta_ ), the touch of his fingers at the small of my back ( _an almost-bruising possessiveness_ ), the familiar scent of him mingling with something beachy that fit _just right_.  A sigh escaped me, the tail end mingling with a Scottish noise.

When he pulled back, brushing his lips over my cheek, he whispered, “Mi corazón.”

“Always the linguist.”

“I’ll never fail ye when it comes to tongues.”

“Or double entendres, apparently.”

“ _Or_ double entendres,” he echoed with a spine-melting smirk.  Biting down on my lip, I let him slip my handbag from my shoulder. He lifted it with his index finger.  “I’ll help ye carry yer bag.”

“Mmm. Don’t strain yourself.”  I could _hear_ the invitation for flirtation in my voice as I climbed into the car.  He accepted that invitation as we drove along the coast.  The unspoken fact that we missed each other ( _a lot_ ) lent a certain intensity to our conversation.  But we never said it.  Instead, we talked about how to make the most of our long weekend –– sea, sangria, seafood, sunscreen, sunshine, sex.

We finally stopped in a small, sleepy hotel.  It was faded by the sun and narrow bungalows sprawled over a white sand beach dotted with palm trees. Parked in front of the rental office, Jamie lifted our intertwined hands and kissed mine. “Home for the weekend, aye?”

“Home for the weekend.” My heartbeat fluttered and skipped.

I hung back by the entrance as he checked us in.  He was speaking Spanish ––a language that I had never heard him use. It flowed from him with casual familiarity.

He was _relaxed_. ( _Moving easily, grinning at things that would not normally earn such a response, laughing at the small things, posture loose._ )

The loneliness and heartache –– the _pining_ of the last twelve days –– drifted away with the promise of a weekend to recharge.

Keys in hand, and armed with a few good recommendations for paella, we made our way to our assigned villa.  

“You do the honors, Dr. Beauchamp,” he said, shifting his work and overnight bags on his shoulder and handing me the key.

I looked at him over my shoulder as I crossed the threshold. The glance was just long enough to see the way he was looking at me and feel a jolt of gut-dropping anticipation for his incoming touch.  Through the door, bags instantly abandoned, he was on me in a single stride.  He pulled at my shoulders so I stumbled into him and sealed his mouth to mine, like he was unzipping me and crawling inside.  

Suddenly, it was impossible to be close enough.  

Cranking myself around, I clawed at his shirt with a high-pitched whine that canceled out the sound that roared from his belly like a growl.  

Our mouths and breath combined, hands _everywhere_ , we let ourselves become consumed with ( _and by_ ) one another.  

Disembodied hands fumbled over buttons, belt, and fly.  

Sure, broad, masculine fingers easily rucked wrinkled sundress over my thighs and yanked down my knickers.

He pulled back, the yellow fabric still bunched in his hands.  My head felt like it was resting twenty feet away, watching the scene play out like a tawdry mid-afternoon soap opera.

“Ye are so incredibly _pretty_ today.”

Blinking rapidly, I just shook my head. I was a little crazed and knew I probably looked worse.  

The moment passed and Jamie launched back into his assault with gusto, driving me up against the wall with enough force that the picture frames rattled. Jamie’s laugh, warm against my neck, was enough to make me groan, “I am burning up.”

My admission was met with a low moan and a breathy ‘ _I am too_ ’ as he pulled his mouth away from mine. The taste of him was red and delicious when I swallowed.

Against the wall, one leg hitched over his hip and his hands at the tops of my thighs, he entered me with such complete abandon that I was helpless but to scrape my fingernails over the expanse of his shoulders.

The lookon his face almost killed me –– eyes at half mast, breath escaping parted lips in uneven hisses, pink rising in newly-bronzed cheeks.

“I’ve… missed… _you_.”  Punctuated by the force of our bodies joining, one of us said it and the other agreed with a whimper.

My bare buttocks scraping against the wall, I held on tight, almost afraid he would disappear like a dream upon waking.  

“Look,” he ground out, breath hot on my ear.  “ _Look_.  Watch while I take ye.”

Fingers manipulated my neck until I was looking down over the fabric of my sundress to the fact that he was possessing me.  I shuddered, a shaky “ _oh God_ ” coming from me at the sight.  

At that, his slick, practiced moves devolved into frenzied, staccato thrusts and profanity that would have made me blush had he not already been inside of me. When his arms began to tremble around me, he carefully lowered us to the floor.  

There, he proved his knowledge of every inch of my body and every sound his touch alone could elicit.  He anticipated the way a kiss would make me move against him, his hand moving to allow my flesh to rise into it.  

Time and distance had nothing to say any longer and I gave myself over to him. Unraveling around him, the ending snuck up on me. He destroyed a silent scream with his mouth, capturing it with a blistering kiss.

I was splitting in two.

Pressing on, he finished just as the quaking fell away, my body still on high alert and every nerve buzzing.

“Come home,” I eventually sighed into the sweaty curve where his neck sloped to shoulder. I was aching and heavy, but still simmering and craving him like a drug.

He rolled off of me carefully.  Turning onto his side, he traced his fingertips over my jawline and down my throat. Suddenly the tile floor felt slimy under my perspiring back and I turned to my side, too. His fingers traced the curve of my shoulder and he ran a hand down the sweaty ridge of my spine.  

He whispered his response: “ _Soon_ , Sassenach.”

We showered together, an affair that was quiet but for the slippery sounds of hands on flesh, mouths moving against one another, smacks on unsuspecting bottoms, and rare muttered comments. ( _I love you; Christ –– yer arse; God ­–– **your** arse; mo chridhe… mi coraz_ _ón_.)

Afterwards, we ripped everything but the sheets from the bed and stretched out together to complete a lazy, handcrafted exploration of one another’s bodies.  Content that nothing had changed but the tan glow to his skin, I curled up against his chest and closed my eyes.  I was not tired; I just wanted to be held for a while.

 _Click_.

I opened my eyes.

He looked guilty and sounded even guiltier when he said, “Does it bother ye? I should’ve asked… They’re not… God… I mean… they’re no’ of yer breasts or anything…”  

He held the phone towards me in a gesture that said ‘ _go ahead, delete them_.’  

“Ye’re more covered by the sheet than ye are in a swimsuit.”

I shook my head, drawing the sheet a little closer to my body as I sat up.

“No.  I don’t mind.”  I tilted my head, studying him. “I trust you.  Plus you’re too naturally jealous to share them anywhere.  It’s just… _why_.”

He did not answer at first and just reached his hand out to cup my cheek.  I turned into the feeling, lips first and breathing in the fresh, soapy smell at his wrist.

When he shrugged, I said, “You can have _it_ …” I looked down at my sheet-clad body. “I mean… **_this_** … most any night you want.”  

“I want to remember ye while I’m gone, though… just like this… a little crispy from the sun––”

–– he ran cautious fingertips over my slightly sunburnt shoulders ( _the pink a product of the driving top down from the airport_ ) ––

“––and tired––”

–– he raised the phone, hardly looking at the screen ––

“and well-loved…”  

His voice trailed off as he settled onto his side with his phone suspended over my body, eyes not leaving mine.  The digital swish of the shutter gave me a little start, even though I knew he was going to take another picture.  

“Ye’re _mine_ and ye’re _beautiful_.”

I reached for my own phone.  “You know I think of you like that, too…”

This time, I snapped a picture of _him_ , catching only his shoulder and the bottom half of his profile as he started to say, “Like _what_?”

I glanced down the length of his body, eyes lingering.  I had seen him in thousands of moments and could have described him with an almost nauseating level of detail, but describing those things in my head, preparing to answer was a new exercise.

( _The gentle outline of laugh lines along his eyes, the bee stung swell of a rosy and pouting lower lip, the knot of pink scar tissue on his ribs, the gash along his thigh, the half-moons of pink on his fingernails, the soft curve of his cock heavy on his thigh, the dopey post-sex look on in his clear blue eyes that lingered for hours, the darkening dusk of a bruise where I had attached my greedy mouth to his collarbone, the auburn burn of short curls along the rise of his chest and nestled in his underarms, the carved dips of his hipbones, the protective curve of his long fingers over my hip as he reached for me._ )

My heart soared.

“I think of you like _this_. _Beautiful_.”

He took my hand, moving to rest the length of his body along mine.  Then, he raised our hands together in the air.  “Selfie time, Sassenach.”

Swallowing, I joined him in counting down.

_Three.  Two. One._

_Click._


End file.
